What the cat dragged in
by Marlowe97
Summary: Maybe the Doctor had not been as smart as he thought he was, leaving Rose and his Metacrisis-clone on Pete's World.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: _  
_Hello._  
_When I started this, I didn't know that there are audio-plays featuring the Metacrisis Doctor, so anything that happens there is not part of my story. Hope I didn't make a mess of things. It's part of a series, everything is already written so don't worry, this will not be an abandoned WIP. Have fun, don't hesitate to mention grave mistakes._

* * *

He sat on the bridge, staring into the night-lights of London. A few nights now, he'd wandered to this point to look at the world from as far up as possible without using one of the zeppelins, and usually it helped sooth the ache in his heart. His one, single, still-beating heart. Normally, a few hours in the cold until his bum was numb would shift things oh-so-slightly to the left, let him get a different perspective and with that, a new spin on things so he'd be able to cope one more hour, one more day, maybe even a week.

It wasn't doing much for him today.

Today had been a bad day. Mind, he had bad days quite often now, but today had been spectacularly bad. He'd cried in front of Pete, for … for… well, for Pete's sake! For no reason at all, except if you thought being told to lock the doors when you were the last one to leave was a valid reason for tears.

He rather thought not.

Sure, he hadn't meant to, but that was part of the problem, wasn't it? He never _meant_ for his emotions going topsy-turvy, but that's what they did, anyway. All over the place, maybe like a pregnant woman's would, except he wouldn't know that, as he'd not ever been a woman. It seemed a fair comparison, from what he'd observed over the years.

Except, of course, _he_ hadn't observed much, had he? And that was probably the cause of his problems, of his emotions going haywire at the strangest and most inopportune moments possible. Not just his emotions, either. Memories shifting, tumbling over themselves like sand caught in the waves breaking on the beach. Over and over they tumbled, over and over mocking him with their falseness. Because they weren't – couldn't be - _his_ memories, could they? He was all of one year and two months alive, so the memory of dancing with Rose in the Tardis wasn't his. The memory of his family, his children, his wife – wasn't his. Sarah Jane, Leela, Susan, Martha Jones and Mickey Smith – not his to remember. The sense-memory of being kissed by Reinette Poisson in France while being on a space-ship, dancing with her – not his. And also not his, the feel of the button he pressed, the cold plastic-like surface, the little resistance, the little _klick_ it made in the end. Not his. He should be grateful at least for that last one not being his, but it didn't matter which of his hands had actually pressed the button – he still remembered it. And he remembered watching his world burn, remembered calculating the loss of life – counter-calculating the loss of _innocent_ lives against the lives of soldiers and _politicians_ and Daleks. No matter how he calculated, what variables he'd used – the numbers all shattered his heart whenever he thought about them. Too high. And yet, there had been no other way.

He had never been the one to make the choice, to make this impossible decision that still had to be made, and yet he was still seeing the aftermath, still watching his world, his people, burn to dust. He wasn't the one to commit genocide on his own people, but he was still carrying that knowledge and the grieve and the anger. He still wished he'd died with all of them, and yet he'd never even had a chance to be part of it – him being not alive at that time, and all. No matter – it felt exactly the same.

He sighed. Felt the lump in his throat re-form and the damn tears prick behind his eyes. His old – his _other_, his _real_ self had never been much for crying, and yet this … this _copy_ that he was couldn't seem to stop.

It was so damn infuriating, having to excuse himself all the time to sit in the bathroom with his long legs tugged up against his chest, trying to at least sob without a sound. Anything could set him off, it seemed – a word, a gesture, a noise. Rose. Jackie and Pete and their little bundle of joy, Tony. Well, not really bundle of joy. Well… at least not always. Well… hardly ever. That kid had a pair of lungs on him that was damn-near impressive. So, to be fair, Tony didn't set him off very often – mostly because usually, whenever that boy started to even scrunch up his nose, he made haste to disappear somewhere important. Like outside, to sit on an abandoned swing-set, for example. Or on bridges.

No, mostly it was Rose.

Even looking at her sometimes hurt in ways he couldn't describe. He loved her – oh worlds above, did he love her! Which was the problem. At least he was sure it was the problem. Well – mostly sure. Well… pretty sure.

Thing was, he loved Rose. He'd loved her the moment he'd woken up, a living, feeling, breathing … being. He remembered loving her for a long time, even though he'd only met her a year ago. He remembered showing her the end of Earth, remembered her stepping out of the Tardis, glowing with the time-vortex that was burning in her eyes and through her soul. Remembered her reaction to him not having a big nose and big ears anymore, the slight sting of it when she was clearly disappointed. And he remembered believing in her strength when he'd been in a pit, talking to something that claimed to be the devil itself. Well – it probably came pretty close to being the real devil, but since the devil didn't exist, that was a moot point. Anyway, he remembered having absolute faith in Rose Tyler, and he remembered being right.

And yet, it wasn't him _she_ remembered when she thought about those things. The one she remembered was gone, barred from her, far away in a different universe.  
The one she remembered might as well have died. Or better yet, had gone off to have adventures without her, shoving a… a blow-up-doll as a good-bye-present into her arms before skipping away into the sunset.

And even that bitter thought could make him choke, because he knew without a doubt that there had been no skipping, and there would have been no happy-ending for his other half. More his other three-quarters. Sixteen-seventeenth. Because he knew, _knew_ that in that universe, the Doctor would have had to kill the DoctorDonna, take away her joy and happiness in exchange for her life. And he knew the Doctor would have done it, because _he_ would do it in a heartbeat.

Even if Donna would beg – she would, she was the kind of person to beg him to let her stay like that – he'd still do it. Because death by exploding brain was neither pretty nor quick. Definitely not painless. He had memories of such events as well, and he'd spare anyone, literally _anyone_, even Davros, such a fate.

So, no happy skipping into the sunset for his other part, and in that regard, _he_ was the one with the better outlook in life. Shorter, yes. But considering the amount of pain he _already_ remembered, chances were that there was still much more to come for the Doctor.

Any bitterness was therefore unwarranted and completely unfair, and yet… He'd been dumped on that beach, the only thing keeping him tethered a girl who really loved someone else and got handed the cheap knock-off, and a family that was kind and helpful but couldn't possibly understand him and wasn't actually his to begin with.

Well, maybe Jackie and Pete _did_ understand a little bit, come to think of it. Both their _real_ loved ones had been killed, they both were each other's knock-offs.

But Rose hadn't chosen him. She'd have chosen the other him, the Doctor, had there been a choice. She'd had no say in it, and she was too great a person to just toss him to the wolves now that he was in her life.  
And to be fair, she probably did feel for him. Maybe even loved him. A little bit. Sometimes.

Today, though, had been one of the really bad days, where he'd been a big dumb dumbo, as Donna would have put it, and had tried to explain why he couldn't seem to get a grasp on anything.

_"Please, talk to me! We can't do this if you don't talk,"_ she'd begged. And because saying she wouldn't understand would have been unfair, rude and completely not true, he'd tried to explain.

Tried.

_"I feel like there's something missing. Like there's a hole in my … my soul, maybe, where something is supposed to be. I used to be able to see time, Rose – I could see it, feel it, know it. And now I can't, but I remember and it… it hurts. And I want to run, so far and so fast, but I can't, because she's not there anymore, I can't run farther than these stupid legs can carry me, and I can't put enough distance between me and everything to … to breathe. It's… She's not here, the Tardis, _he_ has her and she's taking care of him, and I miss her and …."_ He'd stopped there, seeing the misery in her eyes. Misery he was creating by telling her how unhappy he was.  
_"Not always, though!"_ he'd hastened to add, trying to stop her thoughts from reaching conclusions that might not be false, but also not completely the truth. He wasn't ungrateful, he _wasn't_! He loved this Earth and he loved his Rose and he even loved Jackie a little (quite a bit, but he wouldn't tell her) and would always love Pete for catching Rose. He'd do anything for Pete right now, which is why he was working in his company, which was slightly too close to Torchwood – this world's version of it – to make it completely comfortable. Maybe he'd stop feeling this grateful one day – wouldn't be the first time. He'd still always love Pete. Sometimes he even loved Tony.

_"Not even that often! Just … just sometimes. Just…"_ But he'd seen that it was too late.

Her eyes had clouded over, her own tears had started to drop. And he'd known, deep down, that she wasn't just crying for him. Because his loss was her loss, too – he'd had his wings cut off, and so had Rose. Except his own wings had never really existed, while her wings were still out there, flying with someone else. He wasn't sure what was worse.

_"Don't cry,"_ he'd whispered, touching her beautiful face with as much care as he could muster. _"Please, don't cry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."_

She'd sniffed and looked at him, and there'd been so much sorrow in her eyes, so much apology. And gods, that had hurt, even before she'd spoken again. _"I'm sorry, too," Rose had said. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could…"_She'd stopped, taken a deep breath and visibly changed course of the sentence that otherwise might have been something even worse than it already was._"I wish this could be enough for you", _was what she'd settled on after the small pause.

And maybe that had been what she'd always wanted to say, maybe she'd really meant it exactly like that. Maybe Rose hadn't tried to change her words into something kinder, but had needed to pause to find the right ones. Maybe.

But what he'd heard – because had he mentioned that it was a bad day? – what he'd heard was _"I wish I could love you."_.

Astoundingly, at that time, his eyes had stayed dry and even though his heart – just the one, only just the one - had felt like someone had taken a pick-axe to it, he'd just nodded and smiled a wry smile.

"_I wish I could be, too_." He'd kissed her, soft and sad, and then smiled and went out. "For a walk," he'd said, leaving her sad and alone in the living-room.

It wasn't a lie. He really wished he could be enough for her.

And less of a twat.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind across the bridge had long since dried his tears. Now, he was just dangling his legs, relieved about the calm that was spreading through his body. Cold crept up his hands where they grasped the railing, and his bottom had indeed become numb.

For a quick moment, just the blink of an eye, really, he thought about jumping down to see what happened. What did real death feel like? Would it hurt? If so – more, or less than being regenerated? And what kind of ripple would his death create – would the Doctor feel it, on the other side of the barrier?

Probably not. They weren't connected, not like that, and he should probably be grateful for it. Feeling the things his other self felt would be double-unfair if he didn't even get to have the experience to go along with all the feelings. And if he ever got to do more with Rose than kiss and cling to her in their bed, he sure as heck wouldn't want the Doctor to feel it.

After tonight, maybe there would never be 'more'. Just as well, he thought. As weepy and whiney as he was right now, it would probably end in a disaster.

"Hey," someone said from behind. He didn't turn, mostly because he had enough to do to keep his balance. Who would sneak up on a person sitting on a bridge-railing, for all-time's sake! "You ain't gonna jump, are you?"

A bit angry for being torn out of the hard-earned state of calm, he turned to let his anger fly, but stopped mid-breath.

He blinked.

Blinked some more.

She was wearing a dark jacket with a fur-trimmed hood, black warm boots and a ridiculous-looking scarf around her head. He couldn't see her hair, but it was bound to be red, and when he felt his eyes widen in shock-turned-horror, she gasped and took a step backwards.

"Oh my God – it is _you_!", Donna Noble shouted, and he lost his grip and fell off his perch on the railing.

* * *

Good thing the bridge's railing wasn't directly at the edge. There was a ledge, not very wide and easily overcome in case of suicidal inclinations, but it was wide enough for his knobby knees to bang onto after his numb bottom slid off the metal.

Also a good thing that even his very cold fingers could grasp hard enough to hold on to the railings' metal-bars and for a precious moment, he clung there, not sure if it was worse to fall or to rescue himself and maybe blow up the mind of this world's Donna just for existing.

It would be just his luck.

But then there were glove-clad hands grasping his wrist and the oh-so-painfully familiar face was above him, leaning over the railing to prevent him from falling.

"Oh no, you don't, Mister! I can't believe you exist, and I'm not gonna let you slip away, because you damn well owe me an explanation. Capiche?"

Too numb – or dumb, didn't matter – to speak, he just nodded.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Up you go, I ain't gonna do the work all alone here. You might look like a twig, but you sure weigh enough to be too heavy, so use your damn long legs and _get up_!"

Later, he would realize that it had probably been weeks if not longer since he'd smiled so hard, and even later still, he would understand that he'd been running around with a permanent scowl or – if you were being kind – a broody look on his face. Mopey and full of self-pity, if you preferred being unkind.

Now, though, he just enjoyed the unfamiliar feel of his mouth turning into a huge grin at the sight and sounds of being told off by his best friend. Even though clearly, she had no idea who he was and that was a mystery, a puzzle, something to investigate. And _adventure_, and a distraction and a wonder, all wrapped up in a red-haired, loud-mouthed packaging.

She pulled him over the railing – unnecessarily harsh, he'd later complain, leaving bruises on his unpadded hipbones – and then dropped him on the tarmac. She was clearly talking to him – he saw her mouth move – but apart from the joy of seeing her, of seeing one more familiar face that he loved, that wasn't dead or gone or unreachable and that clearly wasn't dying just from looking at him, nothing really reached him.

Only when she hit his shoulder – ouch! – did he shake himself from the memory of the other Donna and focused on this one. "Oi, spaceman, I'm talking to you!"

"What did you call me?", he gasped. It couldn't be, could it?

"What? Spaceman. Because you're –" she gestured to her head, circling it with her hands – was that supposed to mean something? "- all spaced out? Oh God, are you on drugs? That would be just my luck, I get an imaginary… _person_ in my head and he turns not only out to be real but also to be a druggy. Just my luck…"

"Uh, no, no. No drugs. Sorry, so sorry," he stood up, dried his hands on his trouser-legs and held out his hand. "I'm… Thank you."

"What. You're 'thank you'? I rescue you from certain death and all I get is a 'thank you', not even a bloody _name_? I demand to know who you are, and why you've been in my dreams all this time. Who are you?"

What? Dreams? Surely, this Donna would not… _dream_ of him, right? The thought distracted him from the fact that even after a year, he still didn't have a name.

He clearly wasn't the Doctor, so he refused to call himself that. He also wasn't someone with a name like… Brian, or James, and John Smith had died in a useless battle fought with school-boys in 1913.

Jackie usually yelled "Hey, you!" at him and Pete simply called him "Doc", the other people on Peter Tyler's payroll just nodded their heads in a more-or-less friendly manner and Rose… Well, he usually knew when she was talking to him. So. Kisses from her were much better than a name, anyway.

And under no circumstance would he use the Doctor's real name here. Words had power, and while he was truly angry at his other part for making such a mess of things, he wouldn't want him _dead_.

Rose would never forgive him.

"Oi!" Donna cuffed him again, same spot. It hurt worse this time – interesting. A true Time Lord wouldn't have felt it any differently than the first knock. Donna snapped her fingers in his face to get his attention. "Wow, you're really very convincing, with the 'no drugs'-thing, Mister." She took a step back. "Maybe I should call someone…" she muttered, apparently only now coming to the conclusion that she was standing in front of a stranger who might be drugged and who, at least to her eyes, had just been about to jump off the bridge.

He felt the grin again. It felt nice.

"I'm sorry, Miss… uh" He'd nearly called her 'Miss Noble', but he wasn't supposed to know that. Also, she might be married in this world.

"Mott," she said, "Donna Mott. And don't you make fun of that, I've heard them all!" She folded her arms in front of her chest, defensive and aggressive in one.

"I wouldn't dare," he replied sincerely. "I wish I could give you my name, but it seems I… have… uh. Mislaid it."

Yeah…. That wasn't going to help his case, was it?

"Mislaid? Mis-_laid_? How do you mis_lay_ your name? It's not a bloody sweater-vest that you hang over a chair and forget about until it's covered in other laundry. It's a bloody _name_!"

Oh, how he'd missed her. He hadn't even known how much, too steeped in his depressed mindset, too hung up on all he was missing. Of course, he'd thought about looking for the people he'd known in this reality, but when he'd started on looking for Sarah Jane, he'd found nothing. Well, not _nothing_. More like too much. He hadn't been aware how many people were named Sarah Smith or Jane Smith or various variations of Sarah Jane Smith in London, not to mention Britain, not to mention the world. No picture of her had emerged, so either she didn't have one on the web or she was, in the end, not called 'Smith'. Or maybe she was dead, but he really preferred the idea of her being married to a nice, competent man who gave her everything she deserved and more.

As for Donna, well. Knowing what the Doctor would have done to save her, he hadn't even dared to look.

"Yes, I know it's a name. I'm sorry – I just can't remember it right now." He raised his hand before Donna could finish the words already forming. "No, I promise there are no drugs involved. Not even alcohol. I'm just…" he sighed. "Just really _tired_." It wasn't even a lie. Then he remembered something. "So. What do you mean – I've been in your dreams?"


	3. Chapter 3

Rose paced.

She didn't like pacing very much, and she especially disliked pacing and chewing on her nails, but right now, both things were soothing and so she bit on her nails and paced the length of her – their, _their_ \- living-room.

She hadn't meant to hurt him but she would be lying if she pretended not to be aware that that's exactly what she'd done. And maybe a little part of her – one she wasn't particularly proud of – had intended to deliver a sting so he'd _bloody well_ snap out of it!

When the Doctor had left them on the beach, she'd dared to hope. Dared to hope that this person next to her would be her Doctor in the way the real Doctor could never truly be. She'd wanted that, _so much_.

And she'd tried, she had! She'd touched him as often as possible, kissed him with everything she had, showed him the life she'd started on Pete's World (it would forever be Pete's World to her, no matter what) and do all the fun stuff she'd have loved to do with the Doctor.

Except the more she'd tried, the more she'd felt him slip away. He'd put on a brave face, had smiled – like him, just like him – and grinned – like him, just like him – and even laughed. He'd started to work for Dad – Pete – in engineering, because he needed to do _something_ and it suited him and wasn't dangerous. She remembered the Doctor's caution that this man he'd left with her was angry and dangerous, vengeful, like he himself had been when she'd met him the first time, the very first time. Still with the big nose and the big ears and the overall impression of a really, really big mouse.

So she'd made sure to watch surreptitiously if he started to act erratic or volatile of even violent. But no, he hadn't. And she'd relaxed, and somewhere in between all this and work and her family, she'd … made a mess of things.

Because he'd started to droop like a house-plant that had been given too much water – or not enough, both was bad for plants. She'd tried to give him more attention, do even more with him, get him out of the dark mood she was starting to see on his face. It worked at first, or that's what she'd thought. Until she'd caught his expression in a mirror one day, when he had been unaware of her watching. He'd smiled only seconds ago, big and goofy, like always – but when she'd turned, the smile had dropped as had his gaze, and he'd looked so lost and sad.  
After that, she'd thought her attention might be smothering him. She'd withdrawn, tried to give him space, but maybe that had made things worse.

It had been good for her, though, no matter what it had done to him. She'd stepped back, mentally, and observed. Him. And herself. Both.

And it had seemed that no matter what she did, he couldn't give back. She'd tried and as it seemed, he hadn't even tried one bit. Had she been alone in this relationship all along?

For a while now, she'd let the distance grow. He was still living with her – he didn't have even a clue where to find a place to live, after all, and even while Pete was paying him, he probably didn't have enough to buy or rent something.

It was also better having a flatmate than being alone, Rose thought bitterly. Maybe he had never loved her at all.

Except… there were the nights, when she'd feel him cling to her like a lifeline. And sometimes, she felt him dream, murmur into her skin and shudder, and she'd grab his arm and pull him even closer, because maybe, maybe… maybe she needed him just as much as he needed her.

But maybe that just wasn't enough. Tonight, she'd begged him to talk, and tonight, he'd finally done that. And hearing him talk about how he felt, how ripped up and torn apart by remembering something he never had, feeling things he couldn't possibly feel, missing the Tardis like a … like a limb, or a best friend, and most importantly like a way out and away… Hearing his wish to run away, from all of this, from _her_… had hurt.

Wow, that had hurt. Rose had thought she'd become detached from him, maybe disenchanted. This wasn't a fairy-tale of star-crossed lovers, she'd recognized it a few months ago. No, it was a sad tale of a broken man and a girl in love with someone else.

But that he would want to run to the other end of the galaxy rather than stay with her…

She hadn't expected that. And yet, she missed that ability, the possibility of it, too. She could never again step a foot into the Tardis, close the door and open it on another world, another time, another planet. She would never again be able to _travel_, not like that, and for the rest of her life, she would have to be content with what wonders this world had to offer.

It seemed terribly inadequate.

She'd lashed out a little, if she was honest with herself. She did know how he felt, didn't she? So how dare he make a point of being so lost without his Tardis! And she'd reacted like an animal, biting the hand in front of her for a perceived unkindness.

Except now, alone, pacing a hole in the flooring, Rose wasn't sure it had been fair. After all, she'd travelled with him for three years. It was hard to keep track, but that seemed about right as the amount of time they'd spent together.

He – or rather, the Doctor – had travelled in the Tardis for centuries! Hundreds of years. How dare _she_ compare her pain of missing the little blue box with his loss of his companion, his one true companion throughout all the time? He'd met many people, taken many of them along. She hadn't been the only one, nor the last one. She might be something special, maybe, but people had walked in and out of the Tardis like it was a department-store.

Only the Doctor stayed, and with the Doctor, only the Tardis. And even more so with this Doctor, the one she'd known, the lonely one, the broken one. The one she'd wanted to mend and hold together, the one who, in the end, had left her alone because there hadn't been another way or rather, he hadn't wanted there to be another way. He'd left her with a version of himself, a copy…

Rose stopped and her breath caught. A _copy_. Had… had she. Was that how he felt? Like a copy? A… a remake of the original? Something _less_ than the original?

Had she made him feel like that? Was that… "Oh my God," she said out loud, then bit into her balled fist. "Oh God, was that what he meant?"

_"I wish I could be, too."_

Tears stung her eyes and nose, and she sniffed, angry. She would not cry, it made her lose focus and drown in pain and tears. Taking a shuddering breath, she sat down on the sofa and stared at the wall, trying to recall if she'd ever called him a copy, or maybe said something that might be interpreted like that. She didn't think so. There was no memory, but then again, he _was_ a copy. Full of pain and misery and memories, and also a brain. A clever one, as that.

Of course he would think of himself as a lesser version. And Rose couldn't help it, she had to admit that for quite a while, she had compared him to the Doctor she knew. Looking for differences, for things that were similar. And she'd asked him questions. _"Do you remember when we…_" and he'd always remembered.

Always.

Everything.

The Doctor had said that he had the same memories, and _he'd_ said it himself, too. He said he _remembered_ being able to see time, and now he couldn't anymore. Like a person losing their sense of smell, or sight, when suddenly everything was different. Darker, duller.

It couldn't be helped, he was a Time Lord, trapped in human biology. He would age and die – hopefully not too soon! – and all this time, he would remember having lived for centuries, and he would always wake up knowing what he wasn't anymore.

And while that might be terrifying in itself, he'd also been shoved out of the Tardis like a… like a piece of faulty equipment, like something unnecessary, something spare. Something _less_. Unworthy. He'd been handed off to her, like… like a – she blinked. Like a discarded toy, or a piece of clothing that didn't fit anymore got handed down to the little siblings. _'Here you go, might fit you, can't use it anymore'._ But she wasn't the Doctor's little sister, she had loved him, truly loved him. She'd ripped open the Tardis for him, to save him, and he'd left her a piece of himself to play with, to … She sucked in a breath.

He'd given her a _sex toy_!

For the first time since meeting him, Rose got truly, deeply angry at the Doctor.


	4. Chapter 4

"But that's impossible!" he said, for the twentieth time. Well, maybe it had only been fifteen times. Well, maybe thirteen. Well… At least five times.

"Don't you yell at me, Mister," Donna scowled, handing him the mug with the tea. "It's not like I wanted you in my head."

They were in her flat – in Kensington, not Chiswick – because apparently human core-temperature was around 36 °C and sitting at night on a bridge in the wind in just a pair of jeans and a sweater-jacket led to hypothermia.

According to Donna, that was. He was pretty sure he'd only been slightly below the norm, but when he'd shivered violently, she'd dragged him along like an unwilling puppy on a leash.

Sitting in her nice, ordinary and fascinatingly orderly flat, though, he had to admit that the shivers across his skin were not exactly pleasant. The hot tea in his mug, though, was very much that.

Donna, after giving herself a loud and stern talking-to for taking a stranger into her home without even knowing his name, and after giving said stranger a blanket, a place on her sofa and sweet – too sweet, but who cared, it was the gesture that counted – tea in a big mug with a big red heart and the script 'London is for Lovers', had sat down herself at the opposite side of the wobbly table and had started talking.

"But… you've never met me." He considered. "Or have you?" Could it be that there was another version of him in this universe? Maybe even a Time Lord with this face who travelled the galaxy in a Tardis?

Were there even Time Lords in this universe? Surely, this galaxy wouldn't be empty, there would be different planets and different life-forms and… No. Right, there was definitely a Rift in Cardiff, and Torchwood in this world was managing it.

There definitely were other sentient lifeforms out there, and therefor everything was possible. There was a spark, a tingle, in some part of his body he couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the spark of curiosity, finally waking up after his year of moping. Or maybe it was hope, for what, he didn't yet know.

Or maybe indigestion, this tea was _really_ too sweet. Grimacing, he held it in his lap, using it to at least warm his skin and hide his shivering.

"Nooooo…" Donna stretched the syllable, peering at him like she might at a bug under a microscope. He said 'might' – he didn't know this Donna, and wouldn't want to falsely assume her dislike of insects would be as immense here as in the other universe. "No, I don't think so. At least not that I remember… Or where you bigger at one time? Like… really big. Verging on fat?"

He looked down at himself. He certainly remembered having different body-types, but 'fat' had been none of them. And anyway, if he'd appeared in her dreams like she said and it was _this_ face, the one he wore now (the one he'd wear until his end), it stood to reason that it was this body she'd seen. And this one had never been anything but slim. Or skinny, or like a stick-insect, if Donna Noble was to be believed. Donna _Mott_ seemed not so different from her, so far. "No, I've always been … lanky," he settled on, after searching for an appropriate word.

"Hm, then no, never seen you in my life. In my waking life, that is. I mean, if I did, it would have been a random moment on the tube, or in the streets, and that's not how people start dreaming of strangers, right?"

He shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea how it works, Miss Mott."

"Call me Donna, Miss Mott sounds like I'm a kindergarten-teacher. Or the school-mascot. I would very much like to call you something, so… how about Brian?"

He recoiled. "No!" Definitely not _Brian_, and hadn't he just thought about that name earlier? "I… Uhm." He ran his hands through his hair. "I… just not Brian. I'm pretty sure I have met someone I dislike very much with that name." Possibly true. Why didn't he like that name – it wasn't that bad. Try as he might though, there was no evil-Brian appearing in his memories.

"Fine. Can't call you Dumbledore, can I? Oh" her face lit up, and he got a bad feeling about this. "Ha – until you can come up with something real, I'll call you Pippin."

_"Pippin?!"_

She nodded, smug. "Convince me otherwise, or stay a clumsy, nosy Hobbit." She leaned back, looking relaxed and completely satisfied at having found a way to address and annoy him at once. "Be glad it's not Gimly."

"Oi!", he protested, then grinned at her delighted giggle. "Anyway. I haven't met you, not that I can remember, and you haven't met me. So how come you dream about me. And," he took a sip of the tea – still awful – to hide his nerves about her answer "and what does it entail, me being in your dreams?"

"Oh, nothing like _that_", she looked aghast at the idea, whatever that might be. Probably not about him being a Time Lord and the two of them meeting Agatha Christy. Then she took a closer look at him, turning her head like a cat would do to watch a particularly interesting mouse and finally shook her head, decisively. "No, not like that. Just random things, completely ordinary. You sitting somewhere on a couch, reading a paper, tinkering with something – I think it was a toaster, but it was in complete bits and pieces so I can't be sure. You uh… Moping." She hid her face in her mug.

'Moping' appeared to be code for 'crying', then. Great. Hopefully at least in somewhat more dignified surroundings than the workplace toilet-stalls. "Been a bad year," he muttered. Then he perked up, realizing what she'd said. "How did it look?"

"What? Like a grown man crying, how would that look? Tears and red eyes and overall not pretty. A bit pa-…"

"No no," he interrupted quickly. "Not that, I mean the couch! How did the couch look?"

For a second, she stared at him like he'd gone completely bonkers. Then a light went on, he could actually see that, and she frowned, thinking. "Hmmm, quite expensive, I'd say. Red, with something swirly on it, maybe flowers. Oh, and there's a big cushion on one side, I remember because it dropped on the toaster-mess and you cursed. It's one of those goofy ones, with some sort of animal. A cat or something."

It was actually a penguin, but the couch and the tinkering where spot on, so he thought that maybe Donna was just zoologically challenged. He swallowed, hard.

"That's precisely right. You're not just dreaming of me… you _see_ me." He frowned. "Why? Why would you… how often did that happen? And has it happened with someone else? Is there ever someone else you see in those dreams?"

Donna's eyes had widened and she'd drawn back a little at his sudden animation. He felt a bit sorry for startling her, but this, this, _this_ was intriguing. It was fascinating, captivating, something to dig his teeth in. A challenge, a mystery.

It was _Life!_


	5. Chapter 5

It was always just him. Not Rose or Jackie or Pete or Tony. No-one else, just him, always moments he was alone, and most of them couldn't even be verified for being so mundane.  
He'd started to make a list with all the instances Donna had dreamed of him. It wasn't daily – something apparently very much appreciated by her – but more or less once every two weeks. She couldn't be sure when exactly it had started, since she hadn't paid much attention to a sudden stranger in her dreams. But the more it happened, the more she'd noticed.

"It's always just snippets. And are you actually telling me that those are _real_? I mean, I guess it would be, considering how I found you, but…"

"Wait, what do you mean, 'how you found me'? Did… did you dream of me on the bridge?"

Donna nodded. "Fell asleep on the couch, thought you'd jump. First I wanted to call the police, but then I thought they'd call me nuts. Wouldn't blame them, either. So, I just thought I'd go and prove to myself that you're not real and then I can go home again and maybe dream of someone sexy." Her eyes softened and then she shook herself out of the fantasy. "Turns out, you are real."

"Hm. Fascinating. And it hasn't ever happened before? Only me?"

"I mean, I don't know. It could be I've dreamed of real people, but how would I know that? You were the only one so far persistent enough to appear over and over. Really annoying, to be honest. No offense."

He was only half listening, hitting the pencil against his teeth. This was strange, and if he were honest, a little bit scary. If Donna had –

A sudden ringing startled him so hard, he threw the pencil away from him. "What?"

"It's not mine," Donna said from the kitchen, and only then did he notice the sound was coming from his pocket. His phone – he'd actually forgotten he had one. Not that it ever got used, but Pete had insisted.

"Hullo?" A sharp breath from the other side, and then a sniff. Perplexed, he looked at the screen. Rose. A sudden jolt of adrenalin hit him, a creeping fear starting to climb up his throat "Rose? Is everything alright?" What could have happened – so many terrible things! What if something had happened to her, or to her family? How fast could he get there – what could he actually _do_? He was just a human with too much brains and a poor brain-to-mouth filter.

_"So, you're not dead, then,"_ she spoke into his ear, and if he didn't know her so well, he'd think she was calm and cool. She wasn't, though, and with a grimace, he looked at the clock-face on the phone. Past one – he'd been out longer than he ever had since arriving on this world.

Uh-oh.

"No, no. Not dead. But you will not believe what happened, Rose, it's really brilliant! Well – I say brilliant, it's actually a little strange. Well – maybe not strange so much as intriguing. And a little scary, maybe. It's-"

_"I know I'm … can you please, please let me know when you plan to stay out this long? I-"_ her breath hitched. She'd been truly, deeply worried.

Guilt crept up, a very uncomfortable feeling and something he tried to avoid having. It never quite worked, there was so much he failed at – well, the Doctor failed, but he carried the same guilt. Usually. Bound to change, he supposed. This one, this was truly his own.

Didn't make him feel any better, having his own guilt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can…" he looked at Donna, standing in the kitchen-doorway, highly interested and not even trying to hide it. "Hang on." He covered the phone's speakers with his hand, aware of being incredibly rude and incredibly, horribly inconsiderate right now.

But the thought of just going home, leaving Donna alone in her beautiful flat, scared him more than the anticipated and well-deserved wrath of Rose. What if he returned tomorrow and Donna was gone? Or didn't remember him? Or worse, be dead?

He shuddered. "Do you have to work tomorrow?"

She raised her eyebrows in that mocking, slightly arrogant way he'd missed _so much_ and shook her head. "You don't work much, do you? Saturday."

Right. There had been more 'have a good weekend'-greetings when he'd left Pete's business today, but those kinds of things were social niceties he usually missed completely until long after the fact. "Can I invite someone over? Please?"

He tried to look as innocent and begging as possible, and it only made Donna laugh. "Ah, what the hell. Sure, but no more than one!"

"Brilliant!" He went back to the phone. "Rose, I'm sorry, so, so sorry for worrying you. If you can come to…" he stopped, looking at Donna expectantly until she caught on and gave him the address, which he repeated into the phone. "Please, you'll definitely understand why I completely forgot to call. Or text. Send a pigeon. Something."

There was another sniff, then a little amused snort. _"Pigeon? Really? Fine. I'll be there in fifteen minutes, more or less. There better be tea when I get there, and we need to have a very serious conversation later. And I can't believe _I'm _being the responsible one here. Gawd, if this is like having a child, I am so not having one."_ He swallowed, really not fond of serious conversations.

Especially not after this evening, with all the things said and unsaid.


	6. Chapter 6

With disgust, Rose looked at her gnawed fingernail. Great. She'd not drawn blood, but it sure didn't look pretty. Whatever was going on here, gnawed-at fingernails were never a good thing. She'd had to fight hard to kick the habit, and after her time in the Tardis and being trapped in the parallel world, it had slowly started to become an issue again.

Couldn't be helped.

She knocked on the very unassuming, ordinary door that in its complete ordinariness would probably hide something incredibly dangerous or incredibly chilling or just plain incredible. She still wasn't very surprised to have it flung open by him, only mere moments after she'd started rapping her knuckles against the wood.

What did surprise her was his face. No – his everything.

He was practically glowing, humming with energy. Hair standing on end like it did when he ran his fingers through it repeatedly, eyes blazing with fire and excitement, a big, happy grin across his face. God, she'd so missed that grin, and only now did she realize how long it must have been missing. This, this was the person she'd first felt falling for, the manic glee of discovery, the thrill of solving a puzzle, his brain running so fast nobody could keep up until he waited for them, and for a second, just a second, she thought it might actually be the Doctor who'd opened the door.

But no, it wasn't, and Rose was surprised that for the first time in a long time, she didn't actually _want_ it to be the Doctor.

She felt her face light up as well, and the long-forgotten muscles in her cheek twinged a bit at the unexpected use.

"Come in, come in, you won't believe it otherwise," he spoke, grabbing her hand and pulling her inside like he'd pulle… no. No, not _like anything_. He'd never pulled her anywhere, _he'd_ never done that before. She had been pulled, by a hand so similar, but not by him. And Rose laughed as he scrambled up the steps to the upper level of the apartment, following in his wake and feeling alive, oh-so alive for the first time in _so long_. And when she saw the woman standing in the kitchen, confident and a little bit astonished and with a sardonic eyebrow-raise, she couldn't help but laugh again.

And he stood next to Donna, _this_ Donna, a different Donna but so very much _Donna_, and he looked like a proud puppy that had found something immensely valuable in the garden, teetering on his toes with his hands in his pockets, bouncy and energized.

And then he grinned and beamed at Rose and said "Look who found me!".


	7. Chapter 7

That night, Rose Tyler felt her world shift once more, just a little bit. And this time, it seemed, it was clicking into place like the tumbler of a lock once the key was slotted.

After the realization she'd had after the… it hadn't even been a fight, but it had felt like much more. Anyway, after that, she'd thought she was at her wits' end. She thought she wouldn't be able to continue, feeling the weight he carried around himself drag her down, drown her along with him. She thought she might have to do something drastic – kick him out? What could she do without actually killing the last light inside of him? – just to keep herself afloat. She hadn't really wanted to, still remembering the pain she'd caused Mickey, but like with Mickey, it couldn't continue like this.

And maybe there was still worse to come. He was, after all, a Time Lord out of time, a man with memories not his own, a raven with his wings broken and ripped off. He was lonely, lonelier even than the Doctor had been, and maybe being not actually anything but human would play havoc with his mind in more ways than anticipated.

She'd never doubted he loved her, and in a way, she'd always loved him, too. And maybe he had been right, maybe she had always found him wanting compared to the man from which he'd been created. Rose would probably always see the Doctor in him, see where the pieces fit and where they were identical. But right now, right here, in the living-room of a perfect stranger who'd without question let this madman into her home and who was watching him with amusement and … fondness? Maybe. Right now, Rose felt the thrill of the chase buzz in her brain.

Not the kind of thrill he was feeling, though she loved a good mystery. No, she wanted to see the differences, the little spots that made him _him_.

With a jolt, she realized that she didn't want to find the Doctor in him. She wanted to find _him_ in between the parts of Doctor, see where he'd lead her – or where he'd let her lead him. Find him, follow him, lead him.

And maybe love him like _he_ deserved, all for himself and not based on the memory of another man with the same face.

"Uh, sorry to ask, but since he's occupied…" Donna had sidled over to Rose and sat on the couch next to her. "You two seem close, and he has been avoiding my questions all night."

Rose met her eyes, smiling. "Yeah, he tends to do that."

"'s just… Because I can't keep calling him Pippin, he doesn't even look like a Pippin at all, so… what's his name?"

... Oh.


End file.
